


Onyx, Golden, Green

by orphan_account



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24852946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: At fifteen, she was only just learning the words for what that feeling in the pit of her stomach meant, that feeling when Irhaal glanced at her out of the corner of those onyx eyes with a glittering mischief. That feeling when those slender, pale fingers entwined tightly with Mor’s or brushed against her shoulder or combed gently through her hair.[An exploration into Mor’s sexuality and relationships through the years.]
Relationships: Andromache/Morrigan (ACoTaR), Azriel & Morrigan (ACoTaR), Cassian/Morrigan (ACoTaR), Morrigan & Rhysand (ACoTaR), Morrigan (ACoTaR)/Original Character(s), Morrigan/Helion
Kudos: 8





	Onyx, Golden, Green

Curtains of black hair fell across that beautiful face, obscuring it for the barest moment as the young Fae dipped into a low curtsy. Mor returned the gesture as she introduced herself, glancing up through golden tresses to find those dark eyes watching her closely.

“My name is Irhaal. I am honored to meet you, my lady.”

Irhaal.

It rolled off the tongue. A name as beautiful as its bearer.

Her family was noble, visiting Keir and his court in the hopes of negotiating trade between the Hewn City and their lands in the southern Night Court. They would be here for several days, and in that time Morrigan would finally have a friend her age to play with, to talk to. A friend would make this dark, horrible city a little less atrocious, Mor thought.

At fifteen, she was only just learning the words for what that feeling in the pit of her stomach meant, that feeling when Irhaal glanced at her out of the corner of those onyx eyes with a glittering mischief. That feeling when those slender, pale fingers entwined tightly with Mor’s or brushed against her shoulder or combed gently through her hair.

But the words didn’t matter. Irhaal was gone within the week.

~

When Rhys took her to the camps when she was seventeen, she spent the first several days alone, untangling her own feelings. She had no desire to marry Eris, that brutish bastard who thought females’ best qualities were their ability to reproduce and sit quietly, taking his abuse.

The Morrigan would not do that. She would never consider bowing to such a despicable male, or to  _ any _ male for that matter.

But could she truly  _ love _ any male? Someone kinder, someone gentler, someone who had no wish to control her? Mor wasn’t an idiot, she could see the looks Cassian sent her way, the looks Azriel sent her way.

Cassian, with his easy grin and his laughing hazel eyes and his smart mouth, seemed a far safer option than Azriel, whose glances held far more longing. In the end she went to Cassian, knowing the consequences but desperate all the same.

She loved him, she really did. She loved the way he could put her at ease with a few jokes, the way he stood up for himself and his brothers, loved how hidden behind his cocky exterior was an extraordinarily intelligent male. And when he pulled his shirt over his head, wings flaring wide, her blood heated at the sun-tanned, scarred torso, taut with muscle; at the power in that body, so distinctly  _ male;  _ at the sharp line of his jaw, slightly stubbled.

He  _ was  _ the mountains, wild and imposing and dangerous and beautiful.

But laid out beneath her, the black hair that splayed around his head looked just like the dark waves of someone else, someone from a time when Mor could still afford to be a child.

~

The music was upbeat, not yet transitioned to the slower waltzes of the early morning hours. Mor was seated at Rita’s bar, laughing with her as the hours slipped by.

Finally, as the bell towers chimed two o’clock, Rita ushered Mor away from the bar, complaining of distraction though she still smiled. “Go dance,” she scolded, “I know that’s your favorite thing about this place.”

In truth, Mor loved  _ every  _ part of Rita’s, including the Fae herself, but she obliged with a good natured grin. She was barely two steps onto the dance floor when a figure slipped smoothly up to her.

High Fae, Mor thought, until she caught sight of glimmering eyes, pupil-less and swirling with molten gold. Sharp black talons were revealed when she held out a hand in a silent offer to dance. Mor accepted, twirling her way across the floor with the stranger until she was out of breath.

Then they were in the stranger’s apartment, the stranger who now had a name. Riniya.

Her head was buried between Mor’s thighs and now Mor couldn’t breath for far different reasons.

When Riniya slid back up her body Mor’s lips found her jaw, moved down to her neck, to the delicate arch of her collarbone, to the gentle swell of her breast, leaving marks all the way.

So different from the hard lines of Cassian’s war-honed body — silken under her hands and mouth, dark skin catching the orange lantern light and throwing soft curves into sharply contoured shadow.

She could have spent her eternity exploring this body.

~

Andromache was the first time Mor could say, with no hesitation, that she was in love. Not the way she loved her Illyrians, like family, but true, romantic, capital L  _ Love. _

This was no lightning strike of love-at-first sight. It snuck up on Mor, hidden in sly glances and sharp-tongued banter and a brilliant grin that made Mor smile in spite of herself.

When the Queen was sequestered on her side of the wall Mor tried, for years, to visit, and when news reached her that Andromache had married she finally let go, telling herself it was for the best. An immortal should stay with their own kind, she thought, even as her heart broke.

Rhys never did discover why Mor was so dejected for months after the signing of the Treaty.

~

Never, not in a thousand years, would Mor seriously consider Helion as a lover. His propositions always made Cassian laugh while Azriel would simply press his lips together in a disapproving line.

Cassian, she knew, had accepted once. On one visit to the Day Court he had slipped back into their rooms as the sun was just rising, startling when he found Mor already awake. She had only winked at him and pressed a finger to her lips.

But then she was there again, with Feyre and the others, and Azriel’s overprotectiveness at the meeting makes her skin crawl with guilt. He loved her in a way she could never return, silently pining even as she chose his brother over him, even as she returned from nights with mysterious lovers doing her best to cover the marks on her neck.

Unable to spend another minute in that suit with Azriel’s brooding, she left for the High Lord’s rooms. Helion was attractive and eager and very,  _ very  _ skilled, but Mor still left feeling worse than she had the night before.

~

Mor won’t pretend that what she has with Lyra is perfect, love never is. This, though, is as close as she’ll ever get.

Feyre seems to find it endlessly amusing that Mor passed over two Illyrian warriors only to find herself with one centuries later.

Lyra is fierce and wild, a true warrior, almost as skilled with that dark Illyrian blade as the general himself. Her siphon, set into the center of her chest, shines with the same shade of green that rings her eyes.

She outmatches Azriel at chess. She keeps up with Cassian’s sarcastic banter. When Nesta snaps at her she snarls right back. When Feyre paints she stoops to glance over the High Lady’s shoulder, pointing out where to sharpen the highlights or deepen the colors.

In other words, they all love her, but Morrigan more than all the rest.

When Lyra slides a small black box across the table to Mor, she opens it cautiously to find a black and silver ring, inset with a tiny ruby. Mor’s eyes fill with tears, and she pulls Lyra across the table into a kiss.

“Yes,” she whispers against those full lips, answering the unasked question. “Yes a thousand times over.”

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Using a fantasy name generator? It’s more likely than you think!
> 
> Happy pride month everyone!


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